


The Brilliant Buchanan

by MegaGhostQueen



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Great Gatsby (2013), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: AU, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Crossover, Inspired by The Great Gatsby, M/M, Marvel Universe, Pining, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Roaring 20s, Slow Burn, Smoking, Top!Bucky, bottom!Steve, i watched the movie recently and i was inspired, major pining, under the influence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-06-30 14:44:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19855363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaGhostQueen/pseuds/MegaGhostQueen
Summary: “The one sign there was even a guy there was the name on the check he got at the end of the night.”“What was it?”Sam smiled again, happy to know he knew so much information I didn’t.“The name was James Buchanan.”~~~Steve is a struggling artist who somehow managed to get himself a place on Long island next to his incredibly rich neighbor, who he doesn't actually know exists. All he knows is that every weekend huge parties are thrown right next door that the entire city of New York seems to attend except for him. Will he ever build the courage to find out who his mysterious neighbor is? What is he expecting to find? Will he even be prepared for what he does?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey hey y'all! If you're for the first time, welcome! If you're here from my tumblr (pssst! snitchesandbitches.tumblr.com) or my other story, welcome back!  
> I recently watched the movie The Great Gatsby, so of course I had to write a Roaring 20s themed Stucky fic.  
> I hope y'all enjoy!

“What game do you think you’re playing at Mr. Rogers?” The stern voice spat. “You can’t honestly expect _this_ is what we had agreed upon.”

I knew this would be his reaction. It was true, I had promised a completely different project. We had talked about a drawing to sell a new brand of perfume, and the editor had wanted a party scene with smiling faces, bright lights, and colorful flowers. Despite how hard I tried, I hadn’t been able to create that world. The perfume didn’t even smell that good. So, I decided to draw something else, a cartoon. It had been a small satire piece, and while the perfume was present, it wasn’t exactly shown in a positive light. However, I had hoped that this piece would have been good enough that I wouldn’t have had to deliver on his previous promise. The man was obviously not impressed

“Well you see sir, I believe I had said-” I tried to explain.

“You had said you were going to give me a sketch for our sponsor’s advertisement.” He interrupted. “We agreed upon a tableau that gave readers something nice to look at and would convince them to buy the product. If they don’t spend money, our sponsors will pull out. Do you know what that means?”

“No, sir.” I couldn’t bring myself to look in the other man’s eyes.

“It means that neither you nor I will be receiving a paycheck at the end of the month.”

“I understand sir.” 

“I don’t think you do, Mr. Rogers. This isn’t the first time you’ve handed in your…” he hesitated, looking at the sketch I had presented, “personal work for an assignment. I understand I do, I know it’s usual for you artistic types to want to send a message. But you seem hellbent on biting the hand that feeds you.”

Anger swelled inside me, but my understanding of where the situation was going forced me to suppress it. 

“Please sir, I can fix this I can get a draft done by tomorrow if you want, I promise you-”

“I’m sorry Rogers, I need someone who can sell a vision. An idealistic version of readers’ lives. And you can’t seem to do that.” 

I was getting desperate. It’s not like artists earned anything anyway. This was the only job I had been able to get in months.

“Please, sir I-”

“You know where the exit is Mr. Rogers.” the man said, handing back his sketch.

* * *

New York City, 1922. America was at the start of its new golden age. Ambitious young men were being drawn to the cities for their fresh, innovative, and risky approach to the world. The stock market was booming, and people were getting very rich. Too rich. 

Except for me obviously.

In Long Island, there were many different characters that were migrating in, but I could distinguish two separate groups. 

On the one hand, there was the nouveau riche. They were the new members of the upper class, who had used their cunning and their love for life to play by the rules and cheat the system at the same time. The ban on alcohol had backfired dramatically, and prohibition was fueling the lives of big city residents, filling their wallets with cash. They seized every opportunity and lived every day like it was their last. They frowned upon in every way by the old money, the other half of the elite. They despised the nouveau riche because these young, captivating, creative individuals were using the system to get themselves a lot of money in ways that they found distasteful. They largely depended on their large family businesses and their deceased parents’ inheritances which many could say was cheating in its own way, but many found it more honorable than gaining money in illegal ways. Regardless of what they thought of each other, they were both at the top of the pyramid, and whatever actions they took often benefitted nobody but themselves.

These people’s lives were filled with jazz, colorful dresses, short hairstyles, fast cars, strings of pearls, houses so big you could get lost, and of course, a sickening amount alcohol. The opposite of my life so far.

I had moved from Brooklyn to a small, practically abandoned cottage on Long Island two years ago because of how expensive it was becoming to live closer to the city. Because of the rapid change the area was going through, the lights were brighter, the music louder, and the clothes and the jewelry more and more extravagant. I had been practically pushed out by the growing numbers of rich youth that were moving to the urban environment. It was a miracle I was able to find this place, there was still a high population of nouveau riche in the area, but the owner of the estate the cottage was on hadn’t even known it existed, and let me live there for a small amount of money. Money that I now wouldn’t be able to repay because I had lost my newest paying assignment. Despite being extremely ignorant and incredibly dimwitted, my neighbors who lived to my left were very kind and understanding. My neighbor to my right, however, was a completely different story.

To my right was an urban legend. A mystery within an enigma. A ghost story.

To my right was a castle. The building towered over mine, reminding me of my place within this crawling maze of social hierarchy. Tall manicured bushes separated his vast estate from my own, hedges so tall, the only thing I could see was the top floor of his mansion, particularly the southernmost tower. When the lights were on, I could see into the window, but I couldn’t get a good view of what was inside. But whatever was going on there most nights I could guess what was happening regardless of how much was blocking my view.

Every weekend, my mysterious neighbor would throw the largest parties in New York City. It didn’t matter who you were, if you were out on a weekend, you would end up here. Music, fireworks, dancing, it was a festival every week. I could observe every week how Monday to Thursday the cleaners, gardeners, and servants would clean up the wreckage that had been brought upon the estate from the weekend’s festivities, disposing of broken glass, abandoned hats and coats, filtering spilled champagne out of the pool, and heaps of empty bottles. Every week I thought that after all that, my neighbor was surely not thinking of throwing another one. 

And every week I would be proven wrong as Friday arrived with crates of lemons, limes, and oranges in tow. Steam would rise from the kitchens with activity, musicians set up their instruments, and, of course, an impossible amount of alcohol would be shipped in. Gin, cognac, vermouth, champagne, rum, whiskey, and probably more I didn’t know about. 

Then, at around 9:00 o’clock on Friday night, flashy cars and taxis would drop off their already stumbling passengers into the drunken chaos. The party would go on all night, and even crawl through Saturday morning until the energy would pick up again Saturday evening, and go until Sunday morning. Guests would drink, dance, eat, and laugh like it was their last day on earth. 

I had never personally attended any of them, despite how accessible they were to me. But I could hear them all right. The music, the laughter. I’m sure people were having a good time, but it was never my scene. I felt much happier by myself, drawing or reading. I was okay with that.

I had always imagined what it would be like to just walk over, but my anxiety always got the best of me. Every time I had nearly convinced myself that there was no harm in going to see what it was all about, a series of questions always deterred me. How could I be sure I would be let in? What would I do when I got there? What if my asthma got the best of me and I’m forever remembered as the guy who passed out because I accidentally got lungs full of second hand cigar smoke? What would I even wear? The whole party was full of girls in colorful glittery dresses accompanied by college guys or businessmen, of which I resemble neither. I would probably just make a fool of myself.

It wasn’t until I had spoken to a friend of mine, Sam Wilson, that my curiosity finally got the best of me.

Although the willingness to face problems like segregation was a lot more present in the north than the south, it couldn’t be denied that not all of the inhabitants of New York City was interested in paying their moral dues. Despite this, Sam had found his calling in jazz and played as a saxophone player in speakeasies and jazz clubs in Harlem, where I had heard him play for the first time over a year ago. I didn’t actually go up and talk to him until I went to see him a second time. He mentioned in between two of the songs that he had been a veteran in the Great War, and I went to thank him for his service, and ever since we've been close friends. I love watching him play. He was married to his music and expressed himself through music just as vividly as he expressed himself with his words. He communicated perfectly with other musicians, allowing others to take the lead, but also giving himself the space to improvise and make his own creative decisions. 

Unfortunately, I could never always watch him play. The words COLORED ONLY or WHITE ONLY may not have been prominently stated like they were in the south, but the invisible lines that were drawn could be even more overt, and there were consequences for those that crossed them. I never felt like I had the right to walk into a restaurant in Harlem. Nothing was stopping me of course, no one would fight me because of it, but it was for precisely that reason I stayed away. I didn't have the right to walk wherever I wanted because the color of my skin allowed me to. Black communities needed their spaces, especially when so much of the world was still being held away from them. The least I could do was let them have what they had fought for.

Because of this, we rarely got the chance to speak in restaurants or clubs, so we spent most of our time walking. On one of these occasions, where my neighbor had come up in our conversation. This day in early July was not the first time his name had come up, and it would not be the last, but this time was probably the most important.

New York had just gotten the message that it was summer. The weather up until that point had been foggy and gray, but with the shining sun and rising temperatures that had just revealed themselves, the city seemed to revel in a new energy. Against all logic, the heat was making people drink more, smoke more, dance more, and it seemed like the whole city was more relaxed, more carefree.

It also meant the city was unbearably hot, and walking down the streets felt like being smothered in between the suffocating blanket of steam and smoke in the air and the unforgiving sting of the burning asphalt. Despite all of this, me and Sam kept walking.

“I would kill for a drink right now,” Sam said, wiping the sweat off his brow.

“I’ll skip the drink, just give me the ice,” I laughed.

“The heat not any better over on the island?”

“Hardly,” I responded, “The only thing that makes it better is just being able to look at the mountains of ice this nutcase next door to me keeps ordering.”

“Well that’s more than I’m getting out here that’s for sure,” Sam said. After a moment he asked, “You ever figure out that man’s name?”

“No, I’ve barely even seen his face,” I answered, losing focus because of the heat.

“How can you be living next to this guy for two years and never seen him? You know, I’m starting to think you’re avoiding him.”

“What would make you say that?” I asked in mock offense, “How can I avoid someone I don’t know?”

“‘Cause I got his name before you. I ain’t never even seen the man and you’re his neighbor.”

I paused, stunned. 

“How did you find out his name?”

Sam gave me a smug smile, “I talked to a guy at one of the bars I played at, said he’d been hired to make the drinks at a few of his parties.”

“And?” I asked, not certain if I was excited to finally learn the name of my mysterious neighbor after so long, or frustrated Sam got there before I did. “What did he say about him?”

“Get this, he never even saw the guy once! He worked in his house for god’s sakes and he never got his eyes on a hair of his head! The only contact he had was with his butler or something.”

I must have looked disappointed because Sam picked up quickly again, “The one sign there was even a guy there was the name on the check he got at the end of the night.”

“What was it?”

Sam smiled again, happy to know he knew so much information I didn’t.

“The name was James Buchanan.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, got another sweet chapter for you which i hope you'll like. I'm rly getting into this world, so I'll see you at the end!

Ever since Sam had told me the name of my mysterious neighbor, I seemed to be hearing it everywhere. The couple standing behind me in line at the bank were planning on going to Buchanan’s house after their weekend dinner party; two men were walking down the street in front of me and talking boastfully about how they were sure all of Buchanan’s wealth was a front; and even the paperboy who couldn’t have been more than twelve mentioned a car accident that had taken place, the drunk driver having come from one of Buchanan’s parties. 

The more I heard his name the more I convinced myself he wasn’t real. He couldn’t be real. How could a man be so famous practically all of New York knew him, yet not his own neighbor? A ghost story, I told myself, an urban legend. 

I had this ridiculous fear that when I found him,  _ if _ I found him, I wouldn’t like what I found. I didn’t even know what I was expecting. 

All of this became a lot more real when I visited my friend Tony. 

Tony was a Harvard man. He had grown incredibly wealthy designing weapons for the Great War at the age of 18. He made the entire country rich, and now at the age of 26, he was just as, if not more, rich. We met one day when I had been commissioned by a magazine to draw a sketch of him for one of their articles, which would have made me a lot more money if it hadn’t been one of those gossip magazines that always sat at the back of the newsstands. We had struck up a conversation, at first because I think I amused him, being so different from him. Here I was, a man “so moral to the point of being self-destructive” (his words), facing him, a man who had exploited every opportunity he had been offered, providing the government with weapons that ruined thousands of lives and kept the country’s obsession with money burning like a fire, turning it into an addiction. I had mentioned that to him. 

“Money is like a drug to America,” I had said. “The highs will be amazing, we’re seeing that right now, but the lows might be devastating.”

“It’s funny you should say that Rogers,” he had responded, not offended at all, just smiling smugly. “You can sit there and spout the whole honorable, patriotic script you’ve been rehearsing. At the end of the day, you’re here drawing a sketch of me, for an article about me, published for people who want to read about me. I’m going to go back to my day, where I can sit on my ass all day and still earn hundreds, and you’re gonna go about your day in a city where my face and my name and what I’m doing is being printed in newspapers and played on radios around the nation.”

We hadn’t exactly liked each other right away.

I had expected to never see him again. I didn’t even think he would remember who I was until I found a letter in my mail a few weeks later from him asking me to do a piece for him. When I arrived, we talked for hours, and through our stories of our similar, yet very different lives, we became close friends. To this day I don’t know if he really wanted the art, or if he just wanted an opportunity to speak to me again. Although we had a very different approach to life, we realized we had the same values. We both loved our country, yet while I thought we should prioritize how we approach others in an attempt to collaborate, Tony wanted to prioritize the gun we would point if there was a knife at our backs. 

Despite becoming so close, there were a few things I hesitated on commenting on. There were some rumors that clung to him even harder than his success, namely, his attitudes towards women. That was something the gossip magazines would print about, the type that got us to meet in the first place. Tony was loved by many women, which was obvious. He would bring a new girl to every event, banquet, and party. Every time he claimed that  _ this is the one, she’s got me for good _ . Until she didn't anymore. 

There was something else I hesitated to bring up at first because I believed it wasn’t my place to mention, so personal up in conversation. However, if I had, I would have found the secret he had been hiding for so long under his charismatic attitude.

He had mentioned before how toxic his relationship with his father, Howard, was. Despite how much he said he hated his father for how he had treated Toky when he was a boy, I still knew that he respected him, admired him even.

Nevertheless, the combination of his father’s neglect and Tony’s need for approval continued unhealthy attitudes and mistakes that had carried on for generations, the origin of Tony’s non existent sense of self preservation and his self destructive relationship to alcohol, never unspoken, yet rarely mentioned. 

To be fair, it was the 20’s, everyone was an alcoholic. Even I had consumed way more than I thought I should, way more than I ever would if prohibition had made alcohol the forbidden fruit of America. However, with Tony, it was worse. The guilt he felt doing what he did, never having made his father proud, and never being able to make a deep prolonged connection with… anyone really made it much worse. His butler-turned-caretaker-turned-friend Jarvis was probably his only close companion he had. He was the reason Tony was still alive today. 

I had found out one day when Tony had called me up. He sounded tired and groggy on the phone, but when I pointed it out he insisted that I come over  _ immediately _ . When I did I found him passed out on the floor of his study, surrounded by broken glass and several empty bottles. He refused to tell me what had happened, but he revealed that he had a problem, a problem that would ruin him if it got out. It couldn’t be known that one of the government’s primary arms dealers, Wall Street’s best businessman and America’s number one heartthrob could be broken. 

“You’re not broken, Tony,” I had said, “You’re human just like the rest of us. You’re allowed to make mistakes.”

“Spilling a drink is a mistake Rogers, forgetting your cigarettes is a mistake. This-” he gestured to his glamorous house, his wealth, his empire, then to himself, pale and sunken, wiry hair framing his sweating temples. The stark contrast, the truth behind it all, “is a disaster. I’m a trigger begging to be pulled.”

“You’re not hurting anyone, Tony.”

We both knew it was a lie. All of his money was the product of hundreds of stolen lives, and the suffering of others being taken advantage of. But at the moment, I hoped it was the best thing to say.

That was a year and a half ago. Until now there hadn’t been another incident, but I knew there was still so much pain Tony was hiding. Everytime I asked, he insisted he was fine. I thought it best to give him space while he asked for it, but I made it clear that whenever he needed anything I would be there. He promised me the same. 

I consider the day I went to see him one of those days- though maybe indirectly. 

He lived in East Egg, with the old money. Even if his company and everything he had created had been his own, he still had inherited a lot from his father, including his estate. Which Tony had immediately torn down and rebuilt after his death. 

A week after I was out with Sam, I received a call from him saying that he had some new friends in town and he wanted to introduce them to me, and that I should come over immediately.

I already knew what he was trying to do. He had been introducing me to new women constantly since we met at the off chance that I would take an interest and he could take credit for managing to find a woman I hadn’t scared off.

I still hadn’t found the opportunity to tell him the truth. 

I promised myself that I would,  _ eventually _ , just- not right now. 

I humored him and took the train to East Egg, arriving at the incredible Stark estate not long before dinner. 

“It’s good to see you, Rogers, it really is. It hasn’t been too long this time though, has it? When was the last time?” Tony led me into his massive house, which somehow blows me away every time I enter it. It somehow looks bigger on the inside than the outside, which is hard to believe. The architecture was more modern than in most houses at that time, a fact that the media hadn’t failed to expose. Those who hated Tony used it as a way to prove how he’s so outside of society's standards he can’t be trusted somehow, and those who loved him (which were the  _ vast _ majority) used it to prove his genius. Very few know that he just did whatever he wanted and that’s that. 

“You tried to introduce me to that girl, the brunette.” I laughed at the memory.

“Oh yeah, her. I really didn’t expect that to go well from the beginning, but it was too late at that point.”

“Yeah, I think it’s best for both of us if we don’t relive that memory.”

That one awkward evening was not the first time he had tried- and failed- to set me up with one of his friends. If I had a dime for every time Tony had invited me because his new girl brought a friend and they spent the night practically on top of each other while I tried to politely avoid the advances of Tony’s friend, then I would probably be living in a house as glamorous as Tony’s.

Tony got very excited all of a sudden.

“This girl on the other hand is great, she’s completely obsessed with artists who never see the light of day.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Yeah, I’m not sure what you’ll think about her, but I invited a friend and she brought  _ her _ friend and I was unprepared so I decided to invite you as well.”

A part of me wanted to stop him in the hall right there and just tell him to avoid an uncomfortable evening. Tony, I appreciate all of your help, but I’m gay. Just thinking about it made my heart jump into my throat. This was not the place. So, I let myself be led through the doors into the living room. 

All of the doors into the garden was open to let into the warm, humid breeze of the summer night, making the white curtains blow into the living room like the drapes of angels. When the doors opened, someone turned to see us. A woman in a black dress, an anchor in a sea of white. 

“Tony?” She asked, “Who was at the door?”

She had dark red hair in a bob, and silver jewelry, diamonds, that brought out the piercing look in her eyes, . 

“My friend, Steve Rogers.” Tony introduced me, “I told you about him. He’s the artist.”

“An artist?” A hidden voice called out. 

“Rogers,” Tony gestured to the red haired woman, “this is Natasha Romanoff.” 

Natasha approached me with a decisive stride and held out her hand. When I took it, I was taken aback by the intensity of her look, and the assertiveness of her grip. 

“And this,” Tony lead me further into the room, “is Sharon Carter.” A pale woman with long blonde hair was lying on the couch as if draped on a cloud. She was almost sinking into the cushions, and was dressed in a white dress to contrast her friend, which is how I hadn’t seen her. 

“Steve Rogers, pleasure to meet you.” I held my hand out. 

Sharon looked at my hand for a moment, as if intrigued by it. “Pleasure.” She took it gracefully, the direct opposite of her friend, and used my hand to help me up. “However, this heat is atrocious. Tony, how do New Yorkers stand this suffocating humidity? I can barely breath.”

I felt a bit self conscious. I was surrounded by beautiful people wearing beautiful clothes. I instinctively shrunk so as to not stand out as much in my old suit jacket and pants, scuffed shoes and stringy hair I had brushed in days.

“It can’t be that bad?” He said, laughing.

“Keep in mind Tony,” Natasha spoke up from one of the opened doors. “We’ve been in Russia for a while, we’re not at all used to the American summers.”

“What have you been doing in Russia?” I asked, curious.

Shanon stepped very close and spoke barely in a whisper. 

“It’s a secret.” She winked as she pulled away. 

Before I could awkwardly laugh or fold myself into non existence, Jarvis came in through the double doors and announced that dinner was ready.

* * *

Natasha sat across from me with Tony to her right, which meant that Sharon was sitting next to me. Despite the unfortunate seating arrangement, Sharon wasn’t as interested with me for the night. Tony kept them both busy with their stories from Russia. 

“They work for the government,” Tony gave me context.

“Well, technically it’s not the government, it’s an independent organization with very close ties to the government.” Natasha corrected. “It’s called SHIELD, I can imagine you haven't heard of it?”

“I can’t say I have,” I said. 

“There isn't a lot we can tell you,” Sharon added, “but we basically neutralize threats internationally before they become a danger to the United States.”

I was a bit overwhelmed with this information. Was Tony trying to set me up with government spies?

“That's putting it very aggressively.” Natasha laughed into her drink. Her and Sharon were the only ones with alcohol at the table, I noticed. 

“Well from what I’ve heard you can be very aggressive.” Tony gave Natasha a sly look. I felt very out of the loop. I felt like everyone else was in on a joke I just couldn’t understand. 

“This mission wasn’t like that. We were just doing some work to help minimize the effects of the fallout of the Russian revolution.” Natasha explained

“Which did leave some opportunities for…” Sharon searched for the word.

“Creative problem solving.” Natasha finished for her. 

“Is that what we’re calling that now?” Tony laughed, “All right then.”

Am I having dinner with assassins?

“Aw, poor Rogers seems a bit left out.” Sharon pouted, taking a sip of her drink. I was about to protest, already making myself as small as possible, hating the sudden attention.

“Well, Steve,” Natasha fixed me with her piercing eyes, and while her smile made her seem kinder, she constantly had this calculating look. I felt like she was unraveling all of my secrets one by one. “Tony mentioned you were an artist. What kind of art do you do?”

“Well,” I said embarrassed, “for now, anything that will pay the bills.”

“Oh, a struggling artist, how adorable.” Sharon gushed. Annoyance flared up inside of me but I suppressed it. If you worked for a top secret government agency assassinating “potential threats to the United States” you probably didn’t need to worry about your next paycheck. 

“Tony said you live in West Egg, how can that be?” Natasha asked. I was not entirely comfortable with my life, financial or otherwise, being opened up on display, but I didn’t see a way I could exit out of the conversation. 

“I, uh, rent a place, from the people that own the estate. I moved there two years ago” 

“West Egg?” Sharon said in surprise, “it’s funny you should mention that. Natasha and I were just talking about how much it’s changed since we left. Of course, we’ve been back to the states from time to time in the past three years but never long enough to look around. Apparently, West Egg has become a ball!”

“You wouldn’t have known it would be that part of the island that got all the attention in the end.” Tony added.

“Tell me about it,” Sharon turned to me, putting me on the spot, “you must have so many stories.”

I began to sweat profusely and my mouth had suddenly gotten very dry.

“I, uh don’t really have any stories.” 

“No?” Sharon looked a little disappointed.

“Well, Sharon,” Tony said, coming to my rescue, “you haven’t told him what you want to know.”

“Well, obviously I want to know about the parties.” Sharon turned to me again, even more, excited than before. “What was his name again?"

"Buchanan," Tony added.

"Right! How could I forget such a memorable name!" Sharon directed her attention to me again. "I mean you live right by there. Are the parties as wild as people say they are. Oh, I’ve heard so much!”

“Honestly,” I said, sheepishly, “You might know more than me. I’ve never been to one.”

Sharon looked less disappointed and more pitiful, and I couldn’t tell which one made me feel worse: the fact that she thinks I’m uninteresting or the fact that she thinks I'm an oblivious hermit with no money.

“I think it’s charming,” Natasha cut in, either to save me more embarrassment or because she was bored of the conversation. “I mean, West Egg was practically invisible! Just big empty houses, and large empty lawns. Suddenly these parties come out of nowhere and it’s been the most popular place in New York for  _ two years _ . You know how hard it is to keep a New Yorker’s attention span. If they’ve been coming back for more for more then those parties must be good!”

“I’m sorry,” I suddenly became very aware of Natasha had said, “How long ago did you say the parties started?”

Natasha narrowed her eyes for a moment, almost too quick for me to notice, but I was so focused on her in that moment I picked up on her moment of suspicion.

“I know someone who has a friend who lives not too far from there. He said the parties only started two years ago. The whole area’s changed so much and so quickly since then.”

The conversation moved on from there onto other subjects, like Tony's business and more stories of Russia (none of them of confidential government information), and the evening was lovely, but I couldn’t help but return to that moment in my head. 

It must be an accident, it couldn’t be anything else. Could it be suspicious that these mysterious parties began when I moved right next door to the man who was throwing them?

To me, it was very unlikely that this series of events could be anything other than a coincidence.

But a part of me wanted to believe that it was more than chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, hope you liked the chapter! fun fact abt me I'm totally a slut for Tony's mental health, the civil war arc in the comics make me cry and honestly i enjoy it, I'm here for it. I think it's great to see charcaters dealing with issues people who aren't super heroes deal with in op culture and media. We're gonna confront that together y'all and he has a roller coaster of emotions in this story, but don't worry!!! it ends happy ending ;-) . y'all know what to do with that kudos button, and y'all know I love comments and suggestions! I'll see y'all in the next chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey hey y'all! I hope you enjoyed. Do me a favor and press that kudos button, it takes 0.2 second of your day, but totally makes mine! If you want, feel free to leave a comment down below to let me know what you think! Criticisms welcomed, I always want to improve my writing, and send in suggestions! But don't be afraid to tell me what you liked so I can add more of that ;-)  
> I'll see y'all in the next chapter!


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